Lana reminisced about how working with a small staff such as this was much better than the hordes of personnel she was accustomed to at larger general hospitals. Her past experiences with gossips in those places were a lot worse. Everyone was a target, sooner or later, for vicious rumors. She didn't want to think about it.
Lana was deep in thought when she heard Bunky growling. The low growls increased to whines and yips, his little butt moving back and forth as he pranced about the house. He finally ended up in the kitchen sniffing the crease at the bottom of the door and looking up expectantly at the door window.
Reluctantly, Lana got out of her chair and went to the kitchen in the back of the house to see what all the fuss was about. She flipped the light switch on, illuminating an area directly outside the back door. Darkness obscured her view of the rest of the yard. Bunky continued his noise-making.
"What's the matter, boy?" she asked nervously. "Do you hear something? Has that skunk come back again?"
Cautiously, Lana unlocked the door, then the storm door, and proceeded to step outside. Thinking back later, she would regret not having called the police instead. She would also regret not remaining inside locked doors.
Her flannel bathrobe securely wrapped around her slender body, and expecting to see a black furry creature with a white stripe down its back, Lana gingerly made her way down the two steps onto the small brick patio. The last thing she remembered was the feel of the bricks beneath her slippers and then ... nothing.
When she finally came to, she was shivering and lying on her side on a cold, hard surface. The back of her head was pounding with pain. She reached for the area of discomfort and felt a warm, sticky substance at the base of her skull, oozing down her neck, slowly dripping across the front of her pajamas. She leaned on her right hand and tried to focus her eyes, but had trouble adjusting to the dark. Finally, she could make out the outline of the hard brick beneath her. I'm on the patio, she thought. What am I doing here? What happened?
After a few moments, she remembered. Her dog had been barking and she had stepped outside to see what he was growling at. She reasoned that someone must have come up from behind her and struck her on the head. Her thoughts raced. Where's Bunky? Did he come out when I did? Fear gripped her. How long have I been lying here? Is the attacker still here? She struggled to her feet, grabbing an iron railing for support. Looking about through misty eyes, all seemed eerily quiet.
The dull pain in the back of her skull was debilitating, and she was starting to get sick. Feeling nauseated, Lana began to worry about shock setting in. The loss of blood, the cold weather, all could throw her into a state of shock. She shakily grabbed the hem of her flannel robe and pressed it against the back of her head. That's when she started retching. When she was finished, Lana wiped her mouth on her sleeve. She had to find her pet.
"Bunky! Bunky! Where are you?" She was screaming as loud as her aching head would permit. She knew that the small dog could not defend himself, and that brought her close to hysterics. I've got to remain calm, she kept telling herself. Maybe he's inside the house.
Lana knew her three-year-old pet well. She had raised him from a one-and-a-half-pound puppy, nurturing him through ear infections and kennel cough. He would not bark in reply. He never did. Whenever he got himself in a predicament, he just sat and waited for her to find him. Which, in the past, she'd managed to do.
She entered the wide open back door, and searching the downstairs, realized what had taken place here. Someone had torn apart her house! She knew that if Bunky got outside, she would never find him. Drawers were pulled out, the contents spilled onto the floors. Cushions were off the furniture, and her desk and filing cabinets had been ransacked! Pictures were yanked off the walls and thrown about. What could they have been looking for? The sick feeling in her gut was beginning to return. I've got to find him, she was telling herself.
"Bunky, are you here?" she called repeatedly. "Where are you?" By now, tears covered her face in anticipation of finding his tiny lifeless body. If anyone hurt my dog, she thought, he won't have a place to hide!
Lana picked up a Mickey Mantle autographed baseball bat from the floor of her computer room and pushed her back against the wall. Her head was still hurting and she felt warm blood on the back of her neck. She again pressed the hem of her robe to the wound and winced in pain. Stooping down, she grabbed her telephone from the floor, where it must have fallen when the intruder was going through her desk. Dialing 911, she waited for the voice at the other end. In response to efficient questioning, Lana whispered her situation into the receiver, gave her name, address, and directions to her house, worriedly scanning the room in fear of the intruder hearing her. After she gave them the information, the dispatcher asked her to remain on the line but she said no, that she wanted to find her dog. She hung up and went around the corner to the back stairwell. She pressed the light switch, peered into the front rooms first, and then proceeded slowly up the back staircase.
The crystal light at the top of the stair illuminated the steps and the upstairs hall. Her back against the stair wall, baseball bat in hand, she slowly took each step, ears pricked for any sound. There was none. At the upstairs landing, a quick decision was made to check her bathroom first. Lana switched the baseball bat into her left hand and pressed her right hand against her bathroom door. It slowly opened. Light from the hallway streamed in, illuminating the corners of the room. She was thankful not to see anyone there. But where is Bunky? And why aren't the police here by now?
Lana replaced the bat into her right hand and proceeded through the bathroom, then into a short hallway that led to her bedroom. Her left hand found the switch on the wall and she turned it on. Personal belongings were scattered about the room. Whoever had gone through the downstairs had been up here, too.
She began to get scared again. The earlier fear that had given way to desperation in trying to find her dog was now returning. What if the intruder was hiding here? She slowly bent down and looked under the bed, praying to God that she wouldn't find someone there. Relieved, she then straightened and eyed the closet door. Taking a deep breath, she put her hand on the closet door handle and opened it wide. Heart pounding hard against her chest, she pulled the bare light bulb string. She could see the clothes that had been pulled off the rack and lay in a heap on the floor. Whatever her attacker was looking for, he obviously hadn't found yet.
It was then that her heart leaped for joy. In the corner, sitting quietly on her discarded wardrobe, was Bunky! "There you are," she screamed. "Thank God, you're all right. I was so worried" She picked her small dog up into her arms and kissed the top of his head. He, in turn, licked her face. He must have gotten in here at some point during the intrusion, and the closet door was closed behind him, she thought.
Now that Lana had found Bunky, she became more rational and realized that she needed to get to safety. Her knees became weak and the room started to spin. She crumpled to the floor in a dead faint. She never heard the distant police siren coming her way.
MONDAY EVENING
Sheski and Mike waited patiently on the front porch for John Deadly to answer the doorbell. They rang it again. Despite the inevitable cold reception that lay ahead, they were anticipating this appointment. Visiting suspects in their own home always provided the lieutenants with so much insight into the target's inner life and personality. Many things that were kept hidden in the outside world were often revealed in some way in their own home. A place they considered safe. A place that reflected their personal taste and lifestyle.
After a short time, the door was opened. Deadly was dressed in blue jeans and a flannel shirt, with his tam perched to one side of his head. He gruffly invited the investigators into his living room. They passed through a short hallway lined with artwork and then into the modern great room. Their host gestured for them to take seats anywhere.
Looking about, Sheski chose the brown leather couch and Mike seated himself next to him. Deadly lowered himself into
a matching wing-backed, brown leather chair. A large hand-made blue and gray pottery lamp with the words Danville, PA glazed on the front was perched in the middle of an accompanying stand. Sheski spoke first.
"We're here to ask you some questions in reference to the Rose Stone murder case. These are just preliminary questions, you understand. At some point, we will want to talk to you in our office"
"Sure. I told you I would help you all I can," Deadly replied sullenly.
"Where were you at the time of the murder of Rose Stone?" Mike began.
He did not hesitate. "I was with Dr. Stone at the hospital. It was a professional call. We were together for a couple of hours. I don't have to tell you about it, you know, client-doctor privilege and all," he said petulantly.
"Okay for now, but at some point you may want to say more," Mike said.
"Are you aware that the body of Barry Brown has been discovered?" Sheski asked abruptly.
"Yes, I am," he replied. "Heard it on my scanner. Probably killed himself after killing Rose, don't you think?" He reached over absently to straighten the lamp.
"No, we don't think so. The coroner believes that Barry Brown was murdered about the same time as Rose," Sheski replied. "We may be looking for a killer who murdered Rose and then, for some reason, killed Barry Brown, too."
He watched Deadly's face closely for any response. There was none. A vein below the tam perched over his right ear pulsed rapidly. Other than that, there was nothing to read. His eyes remained focused on his inquisitors, his hands were steady, and his breathing regular.
He's a cool one, thought Sheski. And I've seen a lot of guilty cool ones. He knew that the guilty ones didn't always give themselves away with their expressions or body language. Experience and training had taught him that sociopaths were quite capable of remaining calm and composed through the toughest interrogations. They could look you right in the eye and lie at the same time. No remorse, no regret, no conscience. They took no responsibility for their actions. It was always someone else's fault, not theirs. Therefore, many believed that they didn't need therapy. After all, there was nothing wrong with them. So watching Deadly nonchalantly handle their questions was no surprise.
"We have reason to believe that Rose's killer was still there at the property when the body was discovered. You see, when Miss Stahl was checking out the garden, she witnessed someone in the back of the property with a garden tool. At first, we thought it was Barry Brown. Now, I don't think so. I think it was the killer. I think whoever murdered Rose was interrupted by the gardener and killed him, too. Then he was interrupted, again, by Miss Stahl. The killer saw her coming into the garden before she saw him. He didn't have time to run to where his vehicle was parked and get away. Besides, that would have looked very suspicious. So he took a chance and just stood there with the murder weapon, the gardening tool, as if he was working."
"Sounds to me like there's a lot of guessing going on here," Deadly said with a smirk.
"Maybe," Sheski replied, smirking also. "If I'm right, that means our killer is probably very close to the same size as Barry Brown, five-foot-six, or close to that. How tall are you, Mr. Deadly?"
Mike was looking at his partner in surprise. He hadn't expected him to reveal so much of their case. Sheski must be on to something, he thought.
Deadly smiled. It was a hard smile accompanied by hard eyes. "About that. But there must be hundreds of people in this town that height or close to it, men and women alike. That's no big deal. Besides, I heard you found Rose's missing jewelry on Barry's body. Maybe he killed her and then committed suicide."
"That may be the killer's biggest mistake," Mike said slowly. "They always make some kind of a mistake, you know. It can be as simple as a bad choice for their partner in crime, or something more complicated. There's no such thing as the perfect crime. We don't have all the details of Barry's murder, yet. But, before we're finished, we will." He wanted to sound confident and did.
The security man appeared to be unimpressed.
"People don't kill themselves by wrapping wire about their own neck, Deadly. Especially Barry Brown. He didn't have the physical strength or dexterity it would have taken. As good a gardener as he was, it was remarkable that he was able to do such perfect work with his impairment. You see, the medicine he was taking was starting to cause some side effects. Barry Brown was suffering from drug-induced Parkinsonism. He was getting no relief from other drugs he was taking to relieve those symptoms. According to his physician, Barry was experiencing muscle rigidity, tremors, and a shuffling gait. That's why he had that expressionless look that everyone thought was due to his psychosis. He didn't change his expression because he couldn't. He was an easy target for his killer. Barry Brown didn't have the capability of defending himself. Poor guy was in the wrong place at the wrong time."
Deadly looked bored.
"Oh, by the way, the Darling Diamond was not found with the body. Dr. Stone was real unhappy when he got that news" Sheski waited a minute for his words to sink in. Mike sat motionless next to him, observing their host.
"Well, as I told you, all this has nothing to do with me," Deadly said. "I was with Dr. Stone at the time of these murders. You're accusing the wrong guy"
"I'm not accusing you of anything," Sheski said. "We're just here to ask a few questions. I did some reading at the library today, and there's something I was wondering about."
Deadly started to perk up. His body stiffened and he gazed intently at the lieutenant, waiting for the other shoe to drop.
"I read that you were the only eye witness when Samuel Stone went into the river. What happened there?"
Deadly got hold of himself and loosened his grip on the chair arms. "I have nothing to add to what you read. That was a long time ago and I'm not sure if I remember the details. The poor kid was crazy. There was no stopping him. What are you snooping around into that old story for?" he demanded.
"Just filling in some blanks," Mike said.
Sheski looked Deadly full in the face and stated, "Those old newspapers held some interesting stories."
Before Deadly could inquire further, Sheski reached for the pager that was buzzing against his right hip. Good timing, he thought. Let him wonder what else we know. He reached down to turn the pager so he could read the message, and saw Andy Wallace's office number gliding in view.
"We gotta go, but we'll be in touch," he said to his host.
The three men got out of their seats and headed toward the front door, the lieutenants leading the way. On the way out, something caught Sheski's eye. Among the pictures in the hallway was a gold-framed three-byfour oil painting of an elderly man that looked decades old. It was a picture of a pleasant, though unsmiling, face that conveyed an air of mystery. A full head of white hair was pulled away from his face and tied in the back with a string. He was wearing a white highnecked shirt buttoned up the front. Something about that picture was puzzling to Sheski. He furrowed his brows and looked closer. What is it?
"Don't you have to be going?" snorted Deadly, placing himself between the trooper and the picture under scrutiny.
As Sheski turned to go, he saw on the frame a brass plaque with the caption SELF-PORTRAIT painted in black. In the lower left corner rested a P with a fragile-looking urchin in the loop. Sheski looked at Mike, glanced back at the signature, then back to his partner. Their eyes locked for a split-second. My God, Sheski thought, realizing what was puzzling him. I almost missed it. A key piece of this case was right before my eyes, and I almost missed it.
In the car, Sheski revealed his suspicions to Mike. He then placed a call to Andy. Before he could ask the town cop what he wanted, he heard the news about Lana. He was reassured that she was alive and okay, just pretty upset about the intruder. Her head wound was minor, although like most scalp wounds, it bled freely.
The lieutenants rushed to Lana's home in Riverside. When they arrived, police cars with flashing lights were parked out in front, impeding traffic. There were already sev
eral investigators milling around, examining the crime scene.
Sheski spotted Doug, the new young trooper, on the front sidewalk with a flashlight, looking around in the darkness. He got out of the car and yelled, "Where the hell was my man? Someone was supposed to be guarding her around the clock!"
Red-faced, Doug informed Sheski that Trooper Moore was posted at the Stahl home. He was found by the local police, out cold next to the alley, when they came to investigate Lana's 911 call. "Whoever struck Lana was probably the one who got her guardian, too. Moore is recuperating at home with a nasty headache and a bruised ego," Doug explained.
"Where's Lana?" Mike asked one of the officers.
"She's in the living room on the couch," was the reply. "Refuses to go to the hospital. Her physician came here and examined her. You just missed him. He said she's gonna be okay. She just needs some rest."
Mike nodded to Sheski to go on in. His friend motioned for him to go with him and they quietly entered the living room. When they approached the couch, Lana's eyes were closed. Her face was pale and drawn. She was on her side with her legs drawn up to her chest, a granny-stitch afghan thrown over her. Bunky was lying next to her. He stirred and looked up when Sheski and Mike drew near.
"Hi, Tommy," she said with a weak voice. Then she frowned. "I was stupid. I shouldn't have gone out there"
"Hey, it's okay," he said quietly, looking at the mess about him. "Are you all right? That's the important thing."
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